


I Knew a Guy

by drop_an_idea_on_a_page



Series: Sua Sponte That Sh*t [1]
Category: Justified
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 07:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4382558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drop_an_idea_on_a_page/pseuds/drop_an_idea_on_a_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He only had a second to choose.  But it was no choice, not really."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> READER WARNING:
> 
> This is part of a series I wrote and posted on FF years ago, under the pen name freshouttaideas. They're a mix of tragic and funny. They're going up on AO3 for the readers who want to download them. There's precious little Justified fanfic out there, even less Tim-centric. I'm sure most readers have combed all the sites for stories and so you've likely already read these, or skimmed and skipped. This is straight story-telling, not much sex, no slash pairings, pretty true to canon, and there's an OFC for Tim (I don't do Mary-Sues, all right?), and other OCs that recur. You could say that it's a continuation of Broken Boy Soldier and Act of Mercy - it works. I'm posting them in some kind of story chronological order by request, though they were NOT written that way. I write for me and post because there's always someone looking for entertainment who shares the space that my own imagination lives in. Cheers to you.
> 
> There's an Army Ranger out there who kindly and laughingly corrected my misconceptions about their Regiment, so by the time we get to the last story, Tim is a little closer to what he's supposed to be. Apparently they laugh in their barracks at the show's depiction. Stay well, buddy, you and your friends - I couldn't do what you do, though I'd love to jump out of an airplane (with a parachute), and I'd love to spend a day with you at a range, learning, though I promised I'd never ask.

* * *

"You shoot somebody, you're gonna have second thoughts. It doesn't matter how justified the shooting is," Raylan concludes. "But you can't let that stop you from doing what's right the next time. Not when lives depend on it."

A group of deputies are gathered by the desks near the coffee machine. It's after 5pm and most have left the office for the day except for the small handful discussing last week's incident. A young man was shot, and a deputy quit. It was his first; it was good; he just didn't think he could make that choice again.

Raylan is the most experienced marshal in the group, and certainly the most prolific shooter. For him, the killing's never easy but the choice is. His world is simple: Loretta is good, even if she is pointing a gun at him; Tommy Bucks is bad, even if he isn't. His world is simple: the situation dictates his actions and second thoughts are dealt with.

Rachel nods in agreement. She faced her second not that long ago and has advanced beyond even Art Mullen in understanding regret and resolution.

"I knew a guy," Tim speaks up from behind them and pauses. He's walked up on the conversation unnoticed and is leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

"You knew a guy," responds Raylan. He lets it hang and turns and faces Tim with a _yeah-so?_

"In Afghanistan. A sniper. He was doing overwatch on a mission. He'd set up on a water tower on the outskirts of this village. Got the street in his scope. Watching his buddies." He stops to lick his lips and swallows.

Tim is speaking carefully, like he's negotiating a verbal minefield, and consequently he's getting the story out more slowly than usual. And since he usually speaks in a slow drawl, today's narrative is particularly painful. Raylan wonders if this is going anywhere, but bites down his impatience. Tim never discusses his time in the military – ever. It's probably worth listening. Everyone else in the group is riveted by the same thought.

"And?" Raylan eventually prompts him with a rolling hand motion.

Tim is struggling with something. He licks his lips again and looks intently at Raylan.

"And this kid, maybe 10 years old, steps out of a doorway the guys just passed. He's armed with an AK-47, aiming up the street at the squad. The sniper sees him. What does he do?"

Raylan waits for more, but realizes that the question is not rhetorical. Tim is expecting an answer. What would he do? He dips his head down and frowns and thinks. He was just saying how there's only ever one clear moral choice. The other marshals are silent, watching the exchange.

"What did _he_ do?" Raylan asks finally, diverting the question back at Tim.

"He shot the kid," Tim states, his voice flat. "He only had a second to choose. But it was no choice, not really."

He pauses again for a moment, his face tenses with emotion. He looks away from the group and rubs his hand across his forehead. When he turns back, the grief in his eyes is undeniable. He waves his hand and continues, "He's fucked either way. Shoot, you gotta live with killing a kid. And how do you do that? But you save your buddy's life. Don't shoot, your buddy goes home in a body bag. You gotta live knowing there's a widow and kids without a daddy and you could've prevented it. And somebody else probably shoots the kid after anyway."

Nobody responds.

"He's fucked," Tim repeats, jams his hands in his pockets, turns and walks back to his desk.

Raylan knows that Tim has just made a point, but he can't get his head around it. This war-zone lesson doesn't fit in his world.

Rachel walks over to Raylan, visibly upset.

"Do you think..?" she starts quietly, looking over at Tim.

"Jesus, I dunno," he replies.

He walks over to Tim's desk, takes off his hat and worries the brim for a minute. Rachel trails behind. Tim looks up and raises his eyebrows in a question.

"What happened to him?" Raylan ventures. He needs to know but dreads the reply will be that he's now working for the US Marshals Service and drinking himself to sleep every night.

"He couldn't deal with it, couldn't shoot anymore, was discharged, went home," Tim replies. There's no emotion on his face or in his voice now. He sits back in his chair, tilts his head and looks up at Raylan. "His shrink told him to talk about it, so he talked about it. But his wife couldn't deal with it 'cause they have a 10-year-old son. She wanted a divorce. It made him crazy. He drove out into the desert and shot himself."

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Raylan waits for an elevator in the lobby of the courthouse, rubbing his eyes. He needs more sleep. This is the third morning this week that he's been late, hitting the alarm and nodding off again. He likes his room over the bar. He finds the evening bustle oddly comforting and he certainly enjoys the bartender's company. But he needs more sleep. He admits to himself that he's getting too old to stay up until 1am every night of the week, but sleeping through the music and the energetic chatter of the college crowd is impossible. He resolves right then to look for a new apartment and this time to make an effort at hunting for something suitable rather than just answering the first ad like he did after Winona left.

The elevator arrives and Raylan steps in. Tim is already on board, coming up from the basement. He's leaning against the back wall, his arms crossed and his eyes closed. He opens them blearily when he hears Raylan's footsteps and looks him up and down.

"You look worse than I feel," he comments. "Missed another great morning meeting."

"I was hoping to miss the sarcasm, too," Raylan snarls, not ready for any Tim Gutterson snark before his coffee. He regrets his tone immediately. Tim wasn't doing anything more than stating the obvious. He takes a deep breath, determined not to let his exhaustion affect his day. He really does need more sleep.

"Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bar," Tim retorts.

"A state you'd be familiar with," Raylan snaps back. So much for regret and determination.

Tim stares stonily at him for a moment then closes his eyes again choosing to finish the ride in silence.

They get off on the Marshal's floor and Raylan holds the door for Tim, a peace offering. He heads straight to the coffee machine, pours himself some much needed caffeine, and then saunters over to his desk. He's intercepted by Art.

"Good morning, sunshine," Art says. "I hope your coffee's cold."

"Sorry Art, I had to…," Raylan starts.

"I'm sure it was important, whatever it was," Art interrupts him. "Why don't you save that excuse and use it tomorrow morning when you're late again. You must be running short."

Raylan looks sheepishly down at his coffee. It's not steaming.

"There was a bank robbery yesterday afternoon. I'll let Tim bore you with the details, but it smells like Boyd Crowder, and the locals called to see if we wanted a sniff. You and Tim can work this one together. I feel you two haven't been getting enough quality time lately." Art smiles at his boys. When he notes the look of dismay on both their faces, his smile deepens into a satisfied chuckle.

"I was also hoping," Art adds, "that you two might be so busy shooting your mouths off at each other, that you'd actually go a day without shooting somebody else. I'm getting tired of all the paperwork. Though if you do have to draw your weapons, shoot each other, would you? It'd give me two more reports to file, but then that'd be pretty much it till I retire."

Art smiles at the thought and strolls back into his office.

There's a pause while Raylan and Tim digest Art's orders. Then Tim, who had just sat down at his desk, stands back up, takes a deep breath and screws his face into an unreadable expression. He raises his eyebrows at Raylan, walks over to the coffee machine, dumps out the cold coffee from the pot and makes fresh. He figures they're both going to need it.

"Let's start with the security video," he says to Raylan, who's followed him over. "It's a small bank with Radio Shack shit cameras, but you'll get an idea for the style of the robbery, or lack of."

"Any chance of getting an ID from it?" Raylan asks, hopeful.

"Better chance they'll walk in and give themselves up."

"Any chance you could just give me the highlights?" Raylan suggests and gives Tim his most winning smile.

Tim is too tired this morning to argue, so he sums up the details while they wait for the coffee to run through. A small bank in Cumberland was robbed by four armed men late yesterday afternoon. Local law enforcement was delayed arriving as they were all called to the scene of a car bombing on the other side of town. Since it mirrors Boyd Crowder's modus operandi so closely, they phoned the marshal's office hoping for some co-operation and a fast closing on the case. Art was happy to help, especially if Boyd might be involved.

"And that's it, really. We're still waiting for forensics on the explosives used," Tim adds.

"Fire in the hole," Raylan muses. "I guess I'll go have a chat with Boyd."

"Sounds like there's a 'but' on the end of that statement," Tim remarks.

" _But_ ," Raylan obliges, "I doubt he had anything to do with it. I think… no, I _know_ he's trying to take back the Crowder empire. Bank robbery just isn't in his purview anymore."

"He's not short of cash?" Tim suggests. He pours out fresh coffees and the two head back to their desks.

"Probably is, but he's thinking bigger picture now – working from behind the scenes. He's in it for the long term. I know Boyd's not his daddy, but he's ambitious like him and probably smarter. Bo Crowder would never rob a bank. He'd think it too…" Raylan searches for the right word.

"Pedestrian?" Rachel interjects from her desk.

Both Raylan and Tim look at her blankly.

"I was going to say 'ordinary'," Raylan responds.

Rachel snorts and turns back to her work. Raylan continues to look at her and wonders what's so funny about 'ordinary'.

Tim sits down at his desk, picks up the case file and opens it. "I've pulled up a list of Boyd's buddies from his Nazi days. It seemed a good place to start. I've only done a quick check, but most of them are inside, or not in the State anymore. Only two names are remotely promising. Charlie Fisher, who was charged with assault after Boyd's gang broke up. Charge didn't stick. I have an address here, but it's up near Indiana. And Mark Cochrane – he was paroled two months ago and is apparently living back in Harlan County. I was going to call his Parole Officer and get an address. If you think Boyd's not involved, maybe we should start there."

"Dig up what you can on Cochrane," Raylan says, putting on his hat and heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Tim demands. "You just got here."

But Raylan is already gone.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Tim says out loud. A few heads turn his way, including Rachel's.

He looks over at her, lets out a huff of exasperation and throws his hands in the air. He knows she hasn't missed a word of his conversation with Raylan. And he can always count on her for good judgment and sympathy.

Instead, she laughs at him. "Better get to work, Junior."

She leans over to take the untouched, fresh coffee from Raylan's desk, but Tim spots the movement and throws himself over the barrier to get it first.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Raylan pulls up in front of Johnny Crowder's bar. It's too early for lunch, so there's only a pickup in the lot and he parks beside it. It's Boyd's. He steps out of the car and peers in the window of the truck. The wind blows up and pulls at his hat, so he settles it a little more firmly on his head and strides up to the front of the bar. He pauses a moment to look around behind him, then opens the door and walks in.

Boyd is alone, sitting at a table with his legs stretched out and reading. He looks up at Raylan, smiles, then turns his book over and lays it on the table. He sits up and gestures to a chair.

"Well, hello Raylan," he says. "I expected to see you yesterday. As it turns out though, today is more convenient for me. As you can see, I'm not very busy."

Raylan does a quick visual check of the bar, walks over to the table where Boyd is sitting and picks up the book.

" _The Sound and the Fury_ , William Faulkner," Raylan reads the cover on the worn book. "You're a surprisingly complex man, Boyd."

"The surprising and the complex are diverting, but truly I'm a simple man. I like a good woman and the comfort of a familiar bar and familiar friends." He nods at Raylan.

Raylan just raises his eyebrows, settling them in a look of disbelief, places the book back on the table and takes the proffered seat.

Boyd smirks. He leans in toward Raylan and says, "I don't suppose you're here to start a book club? No? Then you're probably looking for some bank money."

"So you've heard about it," Raylan states.

"Why yes, Raylan, everyone's heard about it. In fact everyone heard it. It was very loud," Boyd says grinning. He leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out again.

"I guess it's not surprising you were expecting me then," Raylan comments. "You probably guessed, too, that the Marshal's Service would think this robbery sounds a lot like some other robberies that you were involved in, once upon a time."

"I confess, the details are curiously similar to work I've done in the past. And I find myself rather humbled by the implication – imitation is the highest form of flattery. Perhaps some youngsters are endeavoring to re-enact my earliest expressions of criminality. I'm embarrassed to say that the thought is rather pleasing to my ego, though the copy pales next to the original," Boyd says coyly, pressing his hand to his chest. "And, not to brag but these home-brewed explosives are less elegant than what I used to work with."

"You're telling me you had nothing to do with this?" Raylan asks. He puts on a look of disbelief, although he's certain that Boyd was not robbing banks this week.

"That is indeed what I am telling you," Boyd states. "I no longer work the trades, Raylan, I've moved up into the office."

"Huh," Raylan responds. He smiles and holds a look with Boyd for a moment. "So you're management now? And has your business gotten any orders for explosives lately?"

Boyd shakes his head, "The only thing I'm selling in Harlan County is goodwill."

"Now that's excellent branding. Goodwill definitely looks better in the advertisements than protection, extortion, prostitution…" Raylan counts off on his fingers.

"I notice you didn't list bank robbery."

"Not finished my list," Raylan responds, then switches the direction of the conversation. "You wouldn't have a Mark Cochrane on your payroll currently?"

"I have no employees by that name. Though, as I'm sure you are aware, he was an acquaintance at one time. I understand he was recently paroled."

"But he's not working for you now? You haven't seen him?"

"No, he is not; and no, I have not," Boyd replies calmly.

"You did just say it was home-brewed explosives used in this job? I don't recall reading that in the report," Raylan says, looking convincingly confused. "In fact, I don't think they've figured out what was used yet."

"When you operate a bar, you are privy to information that would not be so forthcoming if folk were less inebriated," Boyd responds.

"Do you recollect any details of this particular inebriate who was discussing explosives?"

"Sorry, Raylan, it was a busy night."

Raylan nods and stands up. "Well, thank you for your time, Boyd."

"Why anytime, Raylan. A pleasure, as always."

Boyd gets up slowly, looking expectantly at Raylan. He doesn't believe for a minute that the conversation has ended. He waits for the next question, the real reason that Raylan drove all the way out to Cumberland to see him. When the marshal reaches the door, he stops and raises a hand as if he's just remembering something. Boyd watches and smiles.

"You wouldn't happen to know where we could find Mark Cochrane."

Boyd ducks his head to hide his smile as Raylan turns back to face him. When he's recovered a more somber expression, he looks up and says, "I believe he's staying at the old Cochrane family home down near Closplint."

"Gee, I appreciate the help, Boyd. Thanks. I suppose you had some employees down there selling some goodwill to Mark and his new gang?"

Boyd smiles, this time for Raylan to see.

Raylan adjusts his hat and heads out the door.

After he settles back in his car he pulls out his phone and dials Tim's number. "Hey. Can you get down to Harlan? I've got a location for Mark Cochrane. Meet me at the sheriff's office."

"I'm on my way," Tim replies.

* * *

Raylan is waiting in the parking lot when Tim pulls up later. Tim locks his car and gets into the passenger seat beside him.

"Might've saved some gas and time if you'd just taken me with you in the first place," Tim says, still annoyed with Raylan for running out earlier.

Raylan ignores the quip. He has yet to come to terms with his relationship with Boyd. He probably never will. And he fears his coworkers are too astute not to see the respect he still has for him, or the lingering attachment he feels for his old mining buddy. Truth is he prefers to see Boyd alone.

"Did you get much from Mark's file?" Raylan asks Tim in an attempt to get the conversation moving in another direction. "I don't remember him from Boyd's gang."

"He was already in Little Sandy when you transferred here," Tim says, letting the grudge go for now. "Got sent up for possession and assault - his first offense as an adult, so not a long stay. The more interesting information is in his juvie file. He got into a lot of trouble mixing up explosives at home. Apparently he blew up his principal's car in high school."

"It can't be this easy," Raylan responds, his eyebrows up past the rim of his hat. He shakes his head, thinking back on his conversation in the bar. "Boyd said that the explosion was a 'homebrew' and he's more a dynamite and emulex kind of guy these days. Makes Mark look good for this, doesn't it?"

Tim considers the new information. "Hey, do you think we could get Boyd working in forensics? It'll be next week before we get _their_ report."

"Boyd working forensics?" Raylan replies, horrified. "Then what excuse would I have to visit a bar during work hours?"

"Now I'm really pissed you didn't include me," Tim repeats, grudging more than ever being left at the office.

"You know," Tim muses, "I should've paid more attention in Chemistry. Shit, I'd love to have blown up the principal's car and then watched his reaction. Might've had more reason to actually show up at school."

"Would this fantasy take place before or after the one where you shoot your dad?" Raylan asks. He throws Tim a concerned look. "You're certifiable, buddy."

"I thought that was how I got in the Marshal's Service – isn't it a requirement?" Tim replies, pointedly looking at Raylan. "I mean so far, for _me_ , they're just fantasies."

Raylan wisely decides to leave that one alone and concentrates on getting to Closplint.

A quick stop in the town gets them directions to the old Cochrane home and ten minutes later they pull into the front yard. The house is typical Kentucky with a low porch up a short flight of stairs, set back a bit from the road by a dirt lane which widens into a clearing in front. It sits in the hollow of tree-covered hills and would be picturesque if anyone bothered to care for it.

"So Boyd just gave up Cochrane?" Tim asks Raylan as he parks.

"Didn't exactly give him up. But if Boyd's trying to take back control of Harlan, he won't be happy with a gang of idiots robbing banks here using his M/O. Especially since I suspect he's getting into the protection racket again. Arlo used to run it for Beau, you know, so he knows the business, even if he did fuck it up."

The two marshals climb out of the car and cautiously look around. The sharp crack of rifle fire sends them scrambling for cover and a bullet kicks up dust in the lane way. Squatting down behind the car they draw their sidearms.

"We're US Marshals," Raylan shouts out. "Put down your rifle and walk toward the car with your hands over your head."

His instructions are answered by a second shot, hitting the ground well to their right. Tim sees the round hit, and nods up the hill behind the house where he suspects the shooter is hiding. Raylan motions to Tim to circle around behind the hill and unloads a few rounds to cover for him as he sprints into the woods and disappears. After a short time he hears a third shot, but the forest muffles the sound and he can't decide where it's coming from or where it's headed.

"Tim?" he yells. He should probably be concerned, but he's worked with Tim enough now to know that any worries he has should be for the poor idiot with the rifle.

"All clear," he hears back.

Raylan stands up, but doesn't holster his weapon. He does a 360 degree check of the area and waits. There are voices coming from up on the hill. He hears another rifle shot and ducks back behind the car. This time he can't keep the concern from edging into his voice as he yells out to the younger marshal.

"Tim?"

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Tim runs hard in a wide circle, but when he judges he's behind the shooter, he slows down, takes a couple of deep breaths then moves more carefully to the hilltop. He's overshot his target and he's finding it hard to be particularly quiet in these woods, but it doesn't matter. The shooter is focused on reloading. The rifle is a break-action and he's fumbling with it, trying to load a cartridge and singing out loud.

Tim raises his gun and says in a calm voice, "Put the rifle down, and your hands on your head."

The man jumps like he's been shot and drops the rifle which snaps shut. Tim flinches. The shooter spins around, eyes wide open, mouth gaping. He stares at Tim, then at Tim's gun. "Is that a Glock," he asks, excitement edging into his voice. "Wow! Can I try it?"

Tim stares back, stunned. He's just a kid, and this kid does not look threatening. Tim lowers his gun, just a bit, and takes a few steps forward.

"What're you doing?" he demands angrily. "You could've hurt someone."

"Practicing," the kid replies earnestly and turns back to pick up the rifle.

Tim brings his weapon back up and says menacingly, "Pick up that rifle, and I'll shoot."

When the kid turns back to face him, the excitement on his face is replaced by anxiety.

"But it won't even load!" he says in frustration and slaps his hands on his legs. "Mark put the first one in for me before he went out and I got the second one in." He looks at Tim pleadingly. "He said I could use it. It's my birthday," he explains. "I wasn't allowed to use it before."

Tim strides over and grabs the rifle. He takes a cautionary look around before holstering his side arm and picking up the box of ammo that was lying next to the rifle. He peers inside then looks at the round the kid is holding.

"You've got two kinds of cartridges in here," he says. "Try this one." He opens the rifle and loads it then hands it over without thinking. Belatedly, he wonders what the hell he's doing.

The kid takes the weapon and Tim cautiously points him away from the house and Raylan, and toward the forest to take a shot. His form is terrible and the shot jumps high.

"Tim," Raylan's voice carries a question.

"All clear," Tim shouts back. He feels stupid for not calling out to Raylan sooner, but this kid has disarmed him, literally and figuratively. He watches him reload and decides to allow him one more shot. First, though, Tim fixes the way he's holding the rifle. The second shot is better, and the kid's face lights up.

"Tim?" This time Raylan's voice sounds urgent, concerned.

"All clear. It's fine," Tim yells again. "Come on," he says to the kid, "we'd better get back." He takes the rifle from him and heads to the house.

Raylan sees Tim signaling to him from the top of the hill. He stands up relieved, leans against the car and watches him, carrying the open rifle over his arm and leading a young man through the trees. Raylan frowns – the shooter is not cuffed. He's waving his arms animatedly and talking. It becomes apparent as they get closer that Tim is smiling, actually he's laughing, silently. In fact he's trying not to laugh.

Raylan holsters his weapon, pushes off the car and strolls up to meet them. The young man stops the arm flapping when he sees the other marshal approaching, and goes quiet.

"Tim?" Raylan's whole body is a question. He can hardly keep from laughing himself at Tim's facial contortions.

Tim is attempting but failing to compose himself. Finally he slaps his free hand over his face and rubs it down off his chin. Now his features show just a lingering amusement.

"Raylan, meet Frisk. It's his birthday today. He just turned 19," he says, grinning.

Frisk stares wide-eyed at Raylan. He looks younger than 19. He looks like he could be Tim's brother. He's wiry like Tim, a bit shorter, a bit fairer.

Tim continues the introduction, "Apparently Frisk was just practicing his marksmanship. He likes my Glock. He has a dog named Stick. He skateboards, but the road here is shit for it. He likes Gangstagrass, watching Crashed Ice races, Red Bull, redheads. He wants a tattoo, a truck, a redhead, a new X-Box 'cause his quit, a gillie-suit, a trip to Disney World…"

He stops and looks at Frisk. "Did I miss anything?" The sarcasm is lost on the boy.

"You learned all that in the 2 minutes it took you to walk down that hill?" Raylan asks, incredulously. "Oh, and Happy Birthday," he adds, nodding at Frisk.

"Frisk, here, talks fast," Tim explains.

"Huh," chuckles Raylan. "A conversation with the two of you might actually average out to tolerable."

Tim throws him his _stop-existing_ look.

"Did he give you a last name in there…somewhere?" Raylan asks.

Tim looks over at Frisk who surprisingly hasn't said a word since he was introduced to the older marshal. He's staring at Raylan's marshal's star.

"Raylan, maybe you should cover up the shiny object," Tim suggests, pointing.

Raylan draws his jacket closed.

"Frisk, tell him your last name." Tim gestures with an open hand toward Raylan.

"Cochrane," he shoots out and grins. "I'm staying here with my brother, Mark. Mark doesn't have a Glock. Do you have a Glock, too? Can I try it?"

Tim raises his eyebrows and smiles at Raylan.

Frisk keeps going. "Are you two partners like in the movies? I watched _Cop Out_ last weekend. It was funny. I liked the part where they jumped off the roof. That was crazy. Are you cops? Is that a cowboy hat?"

Raylan holds up a hand to stop Frisk's rapid-fire attack.

"Not cops, Deputy Marshals," he says, choosing a question to answer. He shows Frisk his shiny star again. Frisk is transfixed.

"What's a marshal?"

0000000000

They question Frisk, who's talking freely again, about his brother. It's difficult to keep him on topic, and what little they do manage to sieve from the rock slide of drabble is not very useful. He tells them that Mark comes and goes as he pleases, that he has some pretty cool new friends and that he wasn't home yesterday.

It doesn't take Raylan long to work his charm on the boy and get an invitation into the house. He and Tim take a good look around the place hoping for evidence of parole violation, something they could use to bring Mark in for a chat if they could find him. They turn up nothing concrete and after a promise to deputize Frisk should they need any help, they retreat back to the car under verbal fire.

Before pulling away Tim, on an impulse, lowers the window and gives Frisk his card.

"If Mark comes home or if you ever need any help, you can call. That's the number right there." He points to the phone number on the card and makes sure he has Frisk's attention. "And be more careful with that rifle."

In the car, Tim and Raylan share a laugh recounting their conversation with Frisk. After talking round in circles and dealing with endless questions, some interesting, some entertaining, some downright bizarre, the marshals finally tired Frisk into confessing that his brother, Mark, had left him defending the fort. His instructions were to scare off any visitors. He hadn't been shooting _at_ the marshals, just _beside_ them.

"He wanted to show me how good he was at shooting. He wasn't holding the rifle properly and I had to load it for him. He was trying to jam a 6mm round into a .22," Tim laughs.

"You loaded it for him? Did you give him some expert sniper lessons while you were at it?" Raylan almost shouts at him. "Are you crazy? What if he'd shot you?"

Tim bites his lip and looks out the window. He knows if he were with anyone but Raylan he'd be catching shit for what he did, but he dismisses the concern with a 'pfft' and a shake of his head. "This may come as a surprise to you, but I've had some experience around firearms. It was beginner's rifle, and Frisk's marksmanship was...well, it wasn't. No reason to be concerned."

"You're displaying a worrisome amount of reckless behavior today," Raylan continues, shaking his head at Tim. "I still can't believe you gave that kid your phone number. What are you going to do if he actually calls?"

Tim shrugs. "I dunno. He just seems… Oh, he's harmless. Though you know, I think we could charge him with attempted murder," Tim rolls his head to face Raylan and lets the last phrase out in full hillbilly drawl, "if we could prove that he _wasn't_ aiming at us."

"That may be all we get out of this trip. Do you think Frisk'll be able to restrain himself from telling Mark about our visit?" Raylan already knows the answer. He looks over at Tim for confirmation.

"You're joking?" Tim responds humorlessly.

"Yeah, shit. We won't find anything next time either, now that he knows we're sniffing," Raylan adds.

"I poked around the kitchen while Frisk was entertaining you with his Kung Fu," Tim adds. "There were all the mixings for some homemade explosives. Problem is it's all household stuff. Nothing you could get a warrant with – just a bit too much of it. Again, not enough for a warrant. Still, in those quantities, you'd expect the house to be cleaner."

"Huh. Didn't by any chance see _The Anarchist's Cookbook_ lying around?"

Tim shakes his head, "Nope, but I looked."

"Frisk reminds me of a kid I was in training with," Tim remarks as they pull into the lot at the Harlan Sheriff's office.

"Rangers?"

"No, Basic. Met up with him again on tour. He was manning an OP near a base where I ended up once. There was a sniper taking shots at them, so they sent me out hunting. I went up to the OP first to try and get a bearing. Couldn't believe it when I saw him there. I figured for sure he'd be dead first week out – dumb luck, I guess. This kid would not shut up – and _stupid_." Tim shakes his head and smiles, remembering. "Kind of likeable though. You couldn't help yourself. Like the guy in _Three Kings_ – the one who gets killed and ends up in a shroud."

" _Three Kings_?" Raylan looks over at Tim.

"The George Clooney movie, about Desert Storm," Tim fills in. "Never seen it?"

"Nope."

"Get a TV," Tim says as he climbs out of the car.

"Get a life," Raylan tosses back before Tim closes the door.

* * *

When they return to the office Tim plunks himself in his chair, opens the file on Mark Cochrane and looks more carefully at his personal information. There is a brother, Trevor, who's the right age, so he starts a search. He then looks through the file for Mark's list of known-associates.

Raylan takes off his hat and flips through his well-worn file on Boyd Crowder, stopping at his notes on his mining buddy's earlier days of blowing shit up and robbing banks. He's considering a trip back to Johnny's bar to see if he can come up with names for some of Mark's 'cool new friends'.

Art watches them through his office window. Finally curiosity gets the better of him and he wanders out and stands at the barrier between their desks. He looks at Raylan, then at Tim, then back at Raylan. They pretend they don't see him.

"So," Art states. It's not exactly a question. He crosses his arms on his chest and lets out a breath, loudly. "Lovely day for a drive."

Raylan looks up. "The 75 through the National Forest was particularly enchanting."

"And you know how much I love visiting Harlan, anytime of the year," adds Tim.

Rachel snorts.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Tim waits for an elevator in the lobby of the courthouse, rubbing his eyes. He needs more sleep. This is his second week trying not to drink Monday to Thursday and he's not sure he can keep it up. He's taken to running again, doing long circuits of the university campus in the hopes of exhausting his body enough that when he finally lays his head on a pillow he'll go four hours before the nightmares wake him. He thinks it's getting better, but maybe that's just his sleep-deprived brain wishing. The daytime flashbacks are coming more often and this unsettles him, though not as badly as the nighttime interruptions. He really needs more sleep. Maybe he'll try a quick nap when he gets home from work, then a run. Maybe he'll try running a little farther. Maybe he'll try bourbon.

The elevator arrives and Raylan steps off almost running into Tim in his hurry.

"Tim," he says looking anywhere but at him, "got some things I have to look after. Call me if something comes up." And he's gone.

Tim turns around and looks angrily at Raylan's retreating form. He struggles to find a something sarcastic to say, but comes up blank. He needs more sleep. When he turns back to get on the elevator the doors have already closed and he stops himself just in time from slamming his face. He lets out a sigh, drops his forehead on the door with a thud, then sidesteps and presses the up button again.

A few minutes later he pushes open the door to the marshal's office and heads straight to the coffee machine then to his desk. There's a message waiting for him from Mark Cochrane's Parole Officer, so he picks up the phone and calls the number. It's a brief conversation. The man says that Mark is staying with his mother in the Town of Harlan and that he doesn't know anything about the other house in Closplint. Tim jots down the address, thanks him and hangs up. He has no idea where Raylan is heading this morning. He considers calling him but talks himself out of it. He sits and chews the end of his pen for a minute, then decides to sign out a car and check the Harlan address.

He gets up and walks over to Art's office and knocks on the open door. He needs to tell someone where he's going.

Art takes off his reading glasses and looks up to see Tim leaning against the door frame. He sits back in his chair and stares at him critically for a moment.

"Do you ever just stand up straight?" Art asks. "I figure you're always leaning because it's the closest you can get to sleeping standing up."

Tim keeps a blank expression on his face and returns the stare. He's not going to rise to the bait and get into it with Art this morning.

"Okay, I guess we'll save that discussion for later," Art defers, still looking hard at him. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm heading into Harlan to check an address I got from Cochrane's Parole Officer," Tim tells him.

Art considers Tim's statement. "Different address?" he asks, looking confused.

Tim nods.

"Alright. Is Raylan in yet? He should go with you."

"Uh, he's back talking with Boyd about old contacts," Tim replies and ducks his head. Tim's a terrible liar and Art sees right through him but chooses to ignore it. He's pleased to see Tim covering for Raylan, though he probably shouldn't be. He squints out into the office.

"Take Rachel with you if she doesn't mind. Mark's an armed robbery suspect and you've already been shot at once this week. I don't want you going alone."

"Alright."

* * *

Tim and Rachel drive to Harlan in a companionable silence. She's catching up on paperwork and Tim is at the wheel, the condition of her agreeing to come along.

He likes working with Rachel – it's just easy. Art assigned her to train Tim when he first started at the bureau. He made all the usual rookie mistakes, plus some interesting new ones, hand-me-downs from his years in the military, habits he had to shake off. He found the marshal training at Glynco a breeze, it felt like an extension of his army days, but walking into the marshal's office that first morning brought on a wave of panic that he didn't think he could overcome. She calmed him. She never raised her voice, never asked about his time in Afghanistan, never made him feel stupid or unworthy. He knows he wouldn't have made it through the probationary period if he'd been assigned to anyone else. Every time he felt like running, she would hold him steady with a warm, encouraging smile.

He amuses himself by imagining how badly it might have gone for him if he'd been assigned to Raylan instead, if he had been in Lexington at that time. Art might have gotten his wish and been rid of them both.

"You two deserve each other," Rachel says to him with her head still in her paperwork. His eyes dart over to her face then back to the road. Was she reading his mind or was he talking out loud? He's not sure which scenario is scarier.

She puts down her pen and closes the file. "You're a lot alike."

He snorts his disbelief.

Rachel smiles at him and continues, "Think about it. The way you two were raised, the paths you've taken. The way I see it, the only differences between you and Raylan are any traits that were pounded into you in the military."

"You mean you can order me around," Tim states in disgust, thinking how often he's been Raylan's errand boy.

She smiles at him. "I'd put it differently. You're more of a team player. Correct me if I'm wrong but I would guess in the military you don't survive without relying on people, and them on you. So that's the way you work still. Raylan has never had to be responsible for anyone but himself. What if you'd gone to college instead? Sure, I worked hard at classes but I had a lot of fun, too. And it was all about me." Rachel smiles again, remembering. "I've got Nick now," she adds wistfully, "and Mom to think about."

"Raylan's got killer instincts with people," Tim says. Oddly, he feels he has to defend him.

"Don't get me wrong. I have a lot of respect for Raylan. And I have a lot of respect for you. I just think the two of you behave like children when you're together. Like I said – you're a lot alike."

Tim knows better than to take anything Rachel says lightly. He files the conversation away. He'll think about it when he's sleeping better.

"And, by the way," she adds after a moment, "you need a haircut."

He instinctively passes a hand through his unruly hair. She laughs and he brings it back down quickly and glares at her.

"Fuck off," he says with a smile to soften the language.

"Play nice."

* * *

Mrs. Cochrane is welcoming enough, though not warm. Her coolness is even more marked when she's introduced to Rachel. Still she invites them in and they sit in her living room. She's not much over 50, but looks considerably older. Every sentence is followed by a fit of coughing that Tim recognizes from his childhood and he suspects that Mrs. Cochrane doesn't have much time left. She's very frail. Emphysema, probably even lung cancer – it was the latter that killed Tim's father. His dad was a chain-smoker, too, one of the many reasons Tim was rarely at home growing up.

They ask her about Mark and she tells them what they already know. They ask to see where he's sleeping and she shrugs.

"He's staying out at the old house. He can't stand it here," she adds.

"Ma'am, the conditions of his parole state that he must reside here with you," Rachel remarks.

"No one has ever been able to tell Mark what to do," she says, dismissing Rachel's legalities with a wave of her cigarette. "He and Trevor moved out there last month. I'm glad they're gone. I couldn't handle Trevor anymore."

"I met Trevor," Tim says smiling, hoping to get her talking more about her younger son.

"By the look on your face I'd say you met him on a good day. He's a sweet boy, but he can get pretty rough." Again, she shrugs, "I couldn't get him to take his medication. Mark looks after him pretty good."

"His medication?" Tim repeats. He wants to ask her just how well she thinks Mark is doing as a role model, but decides it's not worth antagonizing her.

"The doctors gave him stuff to help his moods. He'd take it sometimes," is all the explanation she gives them.

When they step back out onto the street Rachel, grinning, turns to Tim, "Glad I came with you. She was definitely too much for you to handle on your own."

"I almost passed out from the smoke," he replies defensively, "then you would've had to resuscitate me." He leans toward her and puckers his lips.

"That's sexual harassment," she says in mock-seriousness and smacks his arm.

"You love it."

"You need a spanking."

"Oh God," he moans.

She punches his arm this time. "Grow up."

His phone rings and he answers it, grinning wickedly at her. His demeanor changes suddenly and she steps back to watch his face, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Hey buddy, calm down. I'm just over in Harlan. I'll come right over," he says to the caller. He listens for a minute then adds, "You just stay put. I'm on my way."

He hangs up and says, frowning, "That was Frisk. He says Mark wants him to do something for him, but he can't do it. He was pretty worked up about it. Do you mind another stop?"

She shakes her head and follows him to the car. "So Trevor is Frisk?"

"One and the same," Tim replies.

Rachel nods. "Do you think it's something to do with Mark's exploits?"

"That'd be nice. We show up and Mark has him mixing explosives. Real easy," he replies.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and run into Mark, then we can take him in for questioning," suggests Rachel.

"Because he isn't staying at his mom's? That's a pretty minor violation."

"But it's enough," she replies.

* * *

The old Cochrane place is quiet and Tim and Rachel cautiously walk up the porch stairs. Before Tim reaches the door, he hears a snarl from the darkness inside and Frisk rushes out, brandishing a baseball bat at Rachel. Tim reacts without thinking, grabs Frisk's arm and swings him around, slamming him into the wall of the house. Rachel has her holster unclipped and her hand on her sidearm.

"What's that bitch doing here?" Frisk is yelling, struggling to get out of the hold that Tim has on him. "Did she fucking follow you? Get her the fuck off my porch!"

Tim looks over at Rachel, his eyes wide.

"This is your buddy?" she asks, her eyes, too, wide with disbelief.

Tim shrugs and looks at her pleadingly. She reaches over and takes the keys from his jacket pocket. "I'll wait in the car," she says in frustration. He just nods his thanks. He waits until he hears the car door open before he relaxes his grip on Frisk, takes the baseball bat from him and turns him around. He keeps a hand on his chest, pinning him in place.

"What is your problem?" he demands. "I could arrest you for threatening a federal officer!"

"You said _you_ were coming. I don't like her!" Frisk yells and jabs his finger at the car for emphasis.

Tim continues to look at him, bewildered. "Well, I'm here," he says after a moment, deciding to get Frisk's focus away from Rachel and on him.

This seems to calm Frisk down a bit. His face crumples and he waves vaguely toward the house. "I can't fix it. Mark said to fix it, but I _can't_!" He starts to get worked up again.

"Well," Tim says calmly, "let's have a look at it."

He drops his hand and Frisk stomps toward the door. He gestures dramatically at the opening. "I broke it and now I have to fix it."

Tim looks more closely and realizes that the screen door is hanging funny. Someone has slammed it a little too hard and pulled the screws right out of the frame. Frisk walks over and punches the house a few times, breathing heavily. Tim puts a hand on his shoulder and asks him for tools.

It takes about 45 minutes to fix the door. Tim does most of the work, trying hard to let Frisk pitch in where he can. While they're at it Tim keeps a constant dialogue going with him, Frisk doing most of the talking. It seems to help keep him calm. Trying not to be obvious, Tim takes the opportunity to have another look around the place. He notices a brand new X-box still in its plastic wrap sitting on the coffee table in the living room and a new TV. He knows that neither brother is earning money, at least not legally. _Not too smart_ , he thinks. When they're finished, he sits on the porch steps for a few minutes talking to Frisk, asking him if he knows when Mark is getting back, saying he'd like a word with him. Frisk is still going a mile a minute, but he's smiling more.

An hour has passed by the time he gets into the car, and he looks guiltily over at Rachel.

"You so owe me lunch," she says.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Rachel and Tim stop to eat just outside of Harlan County, and pull back into the Lexington office late in the afternoon. Walking in from the parking lot, Tim hears a helicopter coming in to land at the hospital down the street. He's overwhelmed by the metallic smell of blood. He brings his hand up and pinches his nose in reaction, but the odor persists. He knows it's only a memory. He closes his eyes and tries to picture the scene, hoping it'll attach itself to the smell so he can clear it from his head.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks. She's stopped and is looking at him, concerned.

He moves his hand away from his face and looks at her. She sees something in his eyes that makes her reach over and put a hand on his arm. "Tim? Are you okay?" she repeats.

"Yeah…" he shrugs her off and opens the door to the building, holding it for her. She gives him a Rachel stare. He stares back then eventually starts whistling tunelessly. She rolls her eyes, accepts the courtesy and heads inside.

"Next time, I'll drive one way," she says and it's not a suggestion.

Up in the office, Tim flops into his chair. Someone has left a report that he'd requested on his desk. It's Frisk's juvie file. He opens it, flips through it and pulls out a write-up for a court-ordered psychological exam. He stares at it for a few minutes, but he can't make anything of it. He stands up abruptly, just as Art is walking over.

"I'm going down to see the shrink," he tells Art.

Art looks at Tim like he's just suggested a sing-a-long.

He catches Rachel eye and rubbing his head he asks her, "Did Tim just say he's going to see the Department Psychologist?"

Before she can answer he's addressing Tim again. "You can't stand her. If I remember correctly, you told me you'd rather be adopted by the Bennett clan than go back and see her."

Rachel is watching Tim, with the same look of concern she had in the parking lot.

Tim waves the paper in his hand. "I just want her to translate this for me. It's Frisk's psych report from his juvie records. I have no idea what bi-polar is. And don't tell me it's a bear that swings both ways," Tim jabs accusingly at Raylan who's back in the office and has strolled over to join the conversation.

"I wasn't going to," Raylan replies, trying to look hurt and innocent. "I was just going to say if you look it up in the dictionary, you'll find a picture of Arlo."

Raylan turns and walks away and Tim chases after him.

"Wait. Arlo's bi-polar?"

"Yep. In fact, Arlo's got _multiple_ personality disorders. He's an asshole, too."

Tim is so used to Raylan's quips about his dad that he doesn't even smile at the joke.

Raylan stands for a minute, giving Tim a measured look. "Why are you so interested in this kid? No, wait, don't answer that," he says raising a hand to stop Tim's reply. "Answer this. Are you an employee of the Harlan Sheriff's office now? I didn't think so. Why don't you just pass Mark Cochrane's name on to them and be done with it? We know this has got nothing to do with Boyd, so let them sort it out."

Tim looks away from Raylan, a bit embarrassed. He has no reason to be chasing the Cochranes and he knows it.

"I can't help you," says Raylan after waiting for a reply. "Better go talk to the shrink." He grins and adds, "You're going to make her day. I imagine it's her wet dream – seeing you walk into her office without Art having you in a headlock."

"Personality disorders are passed on, you know," Tim says, glaring at him.

Raylan looks sideways at Tim. "You're suggesting I'm bi-polar?"

"No, I'm suggesting you're an asshole," Tim responds, and heads to the elevator.

* * *

Stephanie Ootes. Tim stares at the nameplate on the psychologist's office door. No answer. He knocks again. When there's no answer the second time, he lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. He's tense and he's sweating. _Jesus, Gutterson_ , he thinks, _get a grip_. He decides he'll just call her tomorrow.

"Deputy Gutterson, are you here to see me?" a sing-song voice rings out behind him.

Tim spins and finds himself face-to-face with Stephanie Ootes. She's almost his height, with tightly held blond hair and a narrow face like a greyhound. She smiles at him and licks her lips. His fight-or-flight response kicks in, but Tim's never been one to run. He holds up the report in front of him like he's brandishing a shield and backs up into her door.

"Uh, I need some help," he stammers, then mentally kicks himself when he realizes how that is going to sound to a psychologist.

She gives him the understanding look that he has learned to despise, steps around him and unlocks her door. "Come on in then. We can talk." Her cheerfulness aggravates him.

He follows her into her office, and slumps into a chair. Tim hates this room. Department policy means he has to talk to her anytime he shoots someone while on duty. His first time here she had pounced on the note in his file about his military career and his deployment into a war zone. Every word he'd spoken during that appointment she had twisted into a reference to his time as a sniper in Afghanistan. He'd lost it, thrown a chair across the room and stormed out.

Her report from that meeting included a strong recommendation for an anger management course. Art told him he was an idiot. He took the course. He applied himself the way he did to all of his training and now he can sit calmly through his appointments with Ms. Ootes and give nothing away. The silver lining to the whole episode is that she has inadvertently given him the tools to survive these meetings, and she will never again crack that shell. Her frustration is his catharsis.

He employs some old sniper tricks to lower his heart rate and forces himself to breathe deeply and start counting backwards.

He watches her as she makes a show of turning off her phone – _10, 9, 8…_ She places it upside down on her desk with an exaggerated motion – _7, 6, 5…_ She takes a seat facing him and folds her hands on her lap – _4, 3, 2, 1._

"What would you like to talk about, Tim?"

He doesn't trust himself to speak just yet, so he silently hands her the report. She takes it and studies it for a minute before looking up.

"Trevor Cochrane?" She looks confused.

Tim is once again amazed at how astute Raylan is at reading people. He has Ms. Ootes pegged. She is hoping for a visit from Tim, about Tim, and she's doing nothing to hide her disappointment that he wants to talk about a case instead. She hands Frisk's evaluation back.

"I'm sorry, why are you here?" she snaps, a little annoyed.

He takes another deep breath and points to the report. "I was hoping you could explain to me what it means to have ADHD and be bi-polar," he replies, looking straight at her, back in control. "I keep running into this kid while working a case. I'm worried about him. He was acting really off this morning when I saw him. I know there are drugs you can take to help these things, but what if he's not taking them, or he's taking other stuff?" Tim is thinking about the possession conviction in Mark's file and wondering what he might be hiding around the house for Frisk to find.

"You mean self-medicating?" Ms. Ootes is resigned to not getting into Tim's past today and is now all business. She stands up and walks over to take a seat at her desk. "What do you see as acting 'really off'?"

"The first time I met him, he was just wound up. Funny as hell, happy, easy. This morning, he was still wound up, but he was aggressive. Not at all the same kid, and _not_ funny."

"ADHD and bi-polar syndrome are often co-morbid," she explains. "The drugs prescribed to treat ADHD can exacerbate the bi-polar symptoms. They're stimulants and would leave the subject permanently in the manic stage of a bi-polar cycle. If the bi-polar syndrome is extreme and the drug mix isn't right, it can certainly cause problems."

Her lesson is lost on Tim. He stares back at her blankly and hopes she'll clarify her explanation.

"People who have one disorder often have the other, too," she starts again. "It's tricky medicating for both at the same time. Some do well with a stimulant - it calms the ADHD and keeps the depressive part of bipolar at bay, keeps them a bit manic, up. But everyone's different. Some get aggressive when they're manic, which isn't fun for them or the people around them."

"Could this make him violent?" Tim asks.

"According to this report, he has a history of violent behavior. That suggests that he's probably an extreme case, and if he's self-medicating, then that's scary."

"Okay. Thanks," Tim says to her, sincerely. He's not sure what he's going to do with this information. It really has nothing to do with a bank robbery. He stands up to leave.

She stands up too and walks him to the door. "You know, I'm here if you need to talk about anything else."

The grateful feelings Tim had toward her disappear instantly. He nods and walks quickly out the door, almost running for the elevator.

* * *

Art motions to him from his office when he gets back. Tim walks over and leans on the door frame, hesitant to be completely in Art's den, expecting more comments about the circles under his eyes or his trip to the psych office. Instead, Art just waves him over and hands him a sheet of paper.

"Local PD from Flemingsburg called," Art says, pointing to the information in Tim's hands. "They've confiscated a huge cache of oddball weapons from a felon there – mix of private and military shit. They're concerned about handling it – haven't a clue what half of it is. Your name was brought up and they asked if you'd head over and help them sort it out. I guess you're the closest thing we have around here to an expert," he adds with a grin.

"When do they want me?" Tim asks. He wonders what constitutes "oddball" weapons and thinks this could be fun.

"Tomorrow," Art replies. "Are you working on anything that can't wait a day a two?"

Tim's eyes sweep over to his desk and he spots Raylan talking on the phone on the other side of the barrier. He thinks a moment about Frisk. Raylan's right, it's not his problem. Even if he could justify his time looking into it, he knows there's little he can do for him. The kid needs professional help. Tim can show him how to hold a rifle, but that's about it.

"Nothing that can't wait," he eventually assures Art.

Back at his desk Tim picks up the phone and calls the Harlan County Sheriff's office and tells them they're done looking into Boyd Crowder and then he passes on their suspicions about Mark Cochrane. Raylan catches a bit of the conversation and looks over with a thoughtful expression.

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

Boyd is discussing business with Johnny when Seth rushes into the bar. Boyd tilts his chair back on two legs, clasps his hands behind his head and looks up expectantly at him.

"Well, Seth, did they heed our warning?" Boyd asks.

"They chased me off," he reports breathlessly to Boyd. "Wouldn't even let me finish talking."

Seth hopes Boyd's not angry. He worked for Beau before he was killed and knew Boyd only by reputation. Everyone he spoke to said that Boyd was less predictable than his daddy, and maybe even a little crazy, but he hasn't seen any of that since he crawled back to Kentucky from Tennessee. He hid out there until he heard news that Boyd was making a play to take back Harlan and had presented himself as soon as could. Boyd was glad for the extra man. He could fire a shotgun and he at least looked mean.

"Well, their response is hardly a surprise," Boyd remarks calmly. "They think they are above our authority because of their numbers."

He slams his chair back onto all four legs, gets up and walks a circuit around the table. They watch him. Seth thinks Boyd looks like he's praying. He has his hands pressed flat together and is holding them so his trigger fingers are pressed against his lips. Those who know him well would notice that the calm face is hiding a simmering anger. He stops in front of Seth. "Truth be told, I am pleased they will not parlay. My tolerance has reached an end, and I find myself desirous to have them out of Harlan. As Daddy used to say: _you don't shit where you eat_. Did you get a count?"

"A count?" Seth asks nervously.

Boyd wishes everyone could be as sharp as Johnny and Ava. "A body count. How many men were there?" he repeats patiently.

"Oh, gosh, five or six, and a mean-looking dog," he adds, his eyes widening for emphasis.

"Was the dog carrying?" Johnny asks sarcastically.

Boyd looks down at him, smiles and takes a seat back at the table.

"How many men we got, Boyd?" Seth is excited, expecting action. "When are we going after them?"

Johnny tells Seth to shut up and turns his attention to Boyd. "If they want to rob banks in Harlan there should be a price. But we haven't got the man power to keep them in line."

Boyd stares across the room, rubbing a hand over his mouth and thinking. "I believe we need to be patient," he muses. "After that fiasco in Harlan the other day, I think we might have men lining up, in fact _volunteerin_ g to look after our problem for us."

* * *

Art hangs up the phone and looks out into the office. He hates bad news. Getting up he lumbers over and stands at the barrier between Raylan and Tim's desks, his face is drawn and he has no smart remarks this morning.

Tim stops what he's doing when he sees the expression on Art's face, and looks up at him nervously. He wonders what he's done wrong. The gig up in Flemingsburg went off without a hitch and since getting back it's been quiet. He's even caught up on his reports.

The silence finally gets Raylan's attention and he pulls his eyes from his computer screen and glances over.

"Art?" Raylan says, sitting back and rubbing his neck.

"There's been another bank robbery in Harlan," Art says.

"Okay," Raylan shrugs. "Did they follow up on the Cochrane lead? He looked pretty good for it." He turns his attention back to the information he was reading.

"A woman was killed when the decoy car exploded. She was just walking by." Art has their full attention now.

"Shit," Raylan sighs.

"Surveillance footage from the bank any better than the last job?" Tim asks.

"That's the impression I get. They're hoping you two might go down and have a look at it," Art says. "A quick ID would be helpful. I told them you were on your way."

Tim shuts down his computer and gets up.

Art scowls at Raylan. "I just hope Boyd Crowder didn't have anything to do with this."

"He didn't," Raylan assures him. He grabs his hat and follows Tim to the elevator.

Out by the car Raylan throws Tim his keys. "You can drive down. I'm going to catch up on some sleep."

He settles himself into the passenger seat and pulls his hat down over his eyes.

* * *

The marshals are sitting in a small tech room at the Sheriff's office in Harlan with some of the local law enforcement. They are watching the footage from the robbery, pausing, scrolling back, watching it again, pausing. One of the sheriff's men leans off his chair to point at the screen.

"There," he says. "That's him, isn't it?"

Raylan and Tim look closely at the face, then at each other. "That's definitely Mark Cochrane," Tim confirms. He's studied at his picture often enough.

They continue scrolling through until this time Tim leans in and points at another man. "Whoa," he exclaims. "Back it up for me." He narrows his eyes and concentrates on the face. "I know him," he finally says, sitting back. "That's Bill Redner. He did time with Mark."

He turns to Raylan. "There's a federal warrant out on him. Assault, grand theft auto, a weapons charge, too. He was last seen in Georgia."

"I assume you haven't had any luck running down Cochrane?" Raylan asks the sheriff's men. Having Bill Redner involved puts this right back in the Marshals' jurisdiction.

The most senior of them shakes his head. "We've checked both addresses, and we have a bulletin out. No luck yet. We'll let you know if we find him."

Raylan stands up, "Alright. We're going to poke around a bit. We'll keep in touch." He nods at Tim and the two of them walk out to the car.

Tim's phone rings and he reaches for it. He uses his back to push open the door of the building and stands there holding it for Raylan. Looking down at the number on the display, he frowns.

Raylan reads the look on Tim's face and shakes his head. "Frisk." The way he says it, it's a full statement.

"Hey, buddy," Tim answers, ignoring the warning look he gets from Raylan, "what's up?"

Raylan huffs and keeps walking, Tim keeps step. He watches the rapidly changing expressions on Tim's face as he holds the phone some distance away from his ear. He starts laughing when Tim finally gets a word in.

"Take a breath, buddy. It's not the end of the world," Tim says, then quickly pulls the phone away again and grimaces. "Nope, I have no idea where he is. But hey, it's okay. I'll bring something over for you. We'll see you in an hour," he finishes and hangs up.

Raylan stops laughing and cocks an eyebrow at Tim when he hears the last statement. "We're not driving over to Closplint today." He jabs a finger at Tim.

"It won't take long," Tim says. "He hasn't got any food in the house. I was just going to take him some groceries. Mark hasn't been back in a couple of days."

"Why is that not surprising? Maybe he's off robbing banks and killing people," Raylan remarks. "Tim, this has got to stop."

"Did Arlo always keep food in the house for you?" Tim asks. "I remember being that age and coming home hungry. No food in the house, no money, no car."

Raylan does remember days like that, but usually Helen kept an eye on their supplies. She'd show up with food cooked and a bag of groceries for a growing boy. "It happened on occasion," is his short answer. "Anyway, wasn't the army feeding you at 19?"

"Okay, so before I joined," Tim responds impatiently. "I'd usually scrounge from the old couple down the road. They always fed me. Good people." He looks off in the distance, remembering. "Can you imagine Frisk going to a neighbor? They'd shoot him on sight. He can be fucking scary."

Raylan chuckles at the image.

"Come on, man," Tim pleads. "Mack's is just down the street. It won't take long."

Resigned to a detour, Raylan waves Tim to the car and they head to the store.

Tim comes out half an hour later with four bags of groceries, two coffees and some sandwiches. He offers Raylan a coffee and a sandwich. Raylan accepts the bribe. He's hungry.

There's not much talking while they eat their lunch. When Raylan reaches for his coffee, Tim pulls a box of mini donuts out of a bag, opens them and puts them on the seat between them. By the time they pull into the Cochrane house lane, they've finished the box and left a dusting of icing sugar over the car seats.

Raylan licks off his fingers as he puts the car in park, but before he can pull the key out, a snarling dog throws itself against the driver's side window. Raylan jumps. "Jesus!" he curses loudly.

The dog is trying to chew its way through the glass, teeth bared, snarling. Tim figures it's a Rottweiler, but he's not a dog expert. Neither of them moves to get out.

"Stick!" a voice barks from the porch. "Stick! Down!" Frisk runs over to the car and grabs the dog by the collar. He can barely hold him. "Just a sec," he yells to Raylan and Tim, and starts dragging the struggling dog, still growling and snapping at the car, back to the house.

"I like your friends, Tim," Raylan says through gritted teeth. "Lovely home, nice pets, always a pleasant greeting…"

"Fuck."

"What?"

"I didn't buy any dog food," Tim says looking down at the bags of groceries by his feet.

When they see Frisk come back out of the house without the dog, they cautiously get out of the car and walk up to meet him in the yard. Tim tosses him a sandwich from one of the bags. Frisk fumbles it and it ends up on the ground. He picks it up, unwraps it and devours it.

"I'm starving," he exclaims. "I haven't seen Mark in fucking forever, and all I have left is Frosted Flakes – no milk!" He grins. "He normally takes the dog. Don't mind Stick. He's friendly really. He just doesn't know you. Hey, can you guys hang? I've been practicing with the rifle. Do you want me to show you? Do you want play X-Box? We can go in the house."

"Is Stick in the house?" Raylan asks.

"Yeah."

"Then no."

"Sorry buddy, we can't stay," Tim explains. "We're working. We've got to get back to Lexington."

Frisk looks disappointed for a second, and then he catches sight of a box sticking out of one of the grocery bags. "Waffles. Awesome!"

Tim passes over the groceries and he and Raylan high tail it back to the car before Frisk opens his front door. Stick chases them out of the lane way.

"Thanks," Tim says to Raylan. He nods at the driver's side window. "Car wash?"

Raylan glances at the streaks of dog spit and slobber and makes a face. "Actually, I need to make another stop," he says. When he offers no other information, Tim assumes they're heading to Cumberland to see Boyd.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

"You can wait in the car if you want," Raylan offers. "I won't be long. Or even better, that diner across the road makes pretty darn good chicken. Why don't you head over, I'll join you shortly."

"I'm not hungry. Beside, no way I'm missing this," Tim replies enthusiastically.

He's out of the car before Raylan can say anything else. Raylan grimaces. He doesn't want Tim along but there's nothing he can do about it now. His hands still grip the steering wheel and his shoulders sag a little as he peers up from under his hat at the front of Johnny's bar.

Tim comes around to his side, opens Raylan's door and leans in expectantly. "You coming?"

Raylan climbs out of the car and glares at him.

Tim grins back good-naturedly. "I've always wanted to see this place," he says. "They should mark it on a tourist map of Harlan County."

Raylan grits his teeth and looks down at his boots, stomps up to the door and yanks it open.

It's a familiar sight that greets him. Boyd, sitting at a table, looks calmly up at Raylan as if he were expecting him at this hour, had invited him to come by. And, of course Johnny is there too, always looking bitter now, sitting at the table with Boyd. Raylan misses seeing Ava fussing at the bar, a lovely distraction, a little tug, a little regret, but she's more often at Audrey's these days looking after her flock.

Tim's boots scraping on the floor behind him drag him out of his reverie and he glances back. He's grateful that Tim has wiped that ridiculous grin off his face.

"Why Johnny," Boyd says, "it seems today we are blessed with the company of not one, but _two_ Deputy US Marshals."

Raylan's not a religious man, but he raises his eyes to the heavens anyway hoping for some patience. He forces a smile. "Boyd," he starts in a clipped tone, "This is Deputy Gutterson." It comes out almost as an apology.

"Why, any friend of Raylan's," Boyd nods graciously at Tim. He stands up and walks over to face the younger marshal knowing it will annoy Raylan that he's including his coworker in their peculiar sphere. "I believe I saw you at the Marshals Offices in Lexington during my latest visit, though we were never properly introduced." He looks at Raylan in mock-disappointment. "If I recall correctly, you were very efficient with the handcuffs."

Tim grins at him.

"This is my cousin, Johnny," Boyd adds to complete the introductions.

Tim grins again, like he's just gotten an autograph from a movie star, then leans casually against the wall near the door, settling himself strategically with a good view of the bar. He crosses his arms and waits.

"Raylan, this is fortuitous," Boyd states. He shares a conspiratorial smile with Johnny. "I was hoping to see you. I have a proposition that I expect will be as pleasing to you as it will be beneficial to me."

Raylan stands awkwardly for a moment. He takes off his hat then puts it back on. Boyd sees Raylan's discomfort and enjoys watching him fidget. He decides to have a little fun.

"But Raylan, I am being rude. You came all this way to call on me, undoubtedly for a good reason. And as you are my guest I must insist you go first." He stuffs his hands in his pants pockets and looks at Raylan expectantly. "What can I do for you today?"

Raylan looks daggers at Boyd from under his hat. He glances back again at Tim whose eyes are wandering over every inch of the bar, drinking in the details, the faces, cataloguing everything for the comedic traveler's guide description he's no doubt preparing in his head for Rachel's enjoyment.

_Why is everyone here amused but me?_ Raylan wonders.

He exhales loudly. "Boyd, you know why I'm here and I suspect we want to discuss the same thing. You said you have a proposition for me?" he entreats.

"Well, I can see you are in a bit of a rush today, but are you certain there isn't something you wish to discuss first? I'm all ears."

"Tell me your proposition," Raylan demands impatiently.

"Indeed," Boyd obliges smirking. "You are surely aware of the tragedy that occurred in Harlan a few days ago?"

Raylan gives no reply.

Boyd continues. "Well, I feel it is incumbent on me to do everything in my power to prevent a reoccurrence of this unfortunate event."

"You're a concerned citizen," Raylan suggests sarcastically.

Boyd nods, humbly accepting the moniker. "I have tried in vain to treat with these gentlemen, and I do no justice to the term by naming them such, but my interference in their affairs has not been welcomed. In fact, they have behaved in a most hostile manner toward me and my men. And now they have forced my hand. They have left me no choice but to turn this over to the proper authorities."

He walks up to Raylan, leaning in close, enjoying the pretend conspiracy. "I can arrange for the perpetrators of these violent crimes to be at a specific place at a specific time. If the Marshals Service were to show up at this gathering a little early, we might all gain."

"And what's in it for you, Boyd?" Raylan asks.

Boyd just smiles.

"Where and when?" Raylan demands succinctly.

Before Boyd can answer, three men rush through the door, two with hand guns, one with a shotgun. They level their weapons at Raylan, Boyd and Johnny. Boyd stands calmly, his face disdainful; Raylan cocks an eyebrow.

"Is it bring a weapon, get a free drink day?" Raylan addresses them cheerfully. "Gee, I didn't know. I guess my buddy here gets two." He points behind them.

The three men turn to look at the same time. Tim has pulled his side arm and his back up and is standing quietly behind them aiming at the closest two, his ridiculous grin replaced with a dangerous smile. Using the distraction, Raylan and Boyd both draw at the same time and Johnny pulls a shotgun out from behind his wheelchair.

"Just hand over your weapon and you'll get your free beer," Raylan says.

One of the men cocks his gun.

"Bad idea," Tim growls.

"Now, we're all friends here," Boyd says in a manner that is anything but friendly. "The bar's not open yet, gentlemen. Why don't you all head on out and come back later?"

The three men see the wisdom in this suggestion and back slowly out the door. Tim gets a good look at the lead man – it's Bill Redner.

"They're really not a bright bunch," Raylan muses.

* * *

"Wow," Tim chuckles after the door to the bar closes behind them. "That was fun."

As he's unlocking the car doors, Raylan glances across the roof at Tim.

"That was fun?"

"Especially you and Boyd and your cute little dance," Tim grins in reply. "Though the three amigos had entertainment value. Woke me up. Shit, the way Boyd talks - it was putting me to sleep."

Raylan glares at him.

"Boyd really enjoys needling you," Tim says smirking.

"We have history. It's complicated." Raylan is getting defensive.

"That's just what my friend said when he got to the love/hate part of the relationship with his girlfriend, just before they broke up," Tim teases.

"Boyd and I, we dug coal together," Raylan says, his voice carrying a warning, but Tim is oblivious.

"You dug coal together?" Tim turns the explanation into a question and raises his eyebrows. Raylan's face is stone and Tim finally realizes he's pushed it a bit too far. The amused expression on his face slides away.

"I put my life in his hands everyday on that job. You don't just shrug that off," Raylan explains angrily, jabbing a finger at Tim. "You couldn't possibly understand."

As Raylan watches, the look on Tim's face changes to disbelief then anger, and he realizes belatedly that now he's gone too far.

"You're wrong, Raylan," Tim says slowly and deliberately, anger now creeping into his voice. "That, I do understand." Tim closes his eyes and takes a breath, gets into the passenger seat and shuts the door a little too hard.

Raylan stands outside the car for a minute chewing on his lip, thinking. He opens his door and climbs in, then takes off his hat and sets it on the seat between them. "Look, Tim…" he starts.

But Tim interrupts him. "I guess being an asshole is another prerequisite for getting into the Marshals Service."

Raylan turns angrily to face the younger marshal, ready to pick up the argument, but the look Tim returns says clearly that he was just offering up an apology.

"Yeah," Raylan agrees, backing down, grateful for the excuse himself, "I guess so." He starts the car and turns out of the parking lot. "I can see the want ad: US Marshals Service now hiring, certifiable assholes only need apply."

"Makes you wonder how Rachel ever got in," Tim adds.

"The selection process can't be perfect," Raylan suggests. "Explains Art, though."

They both chuckle.

Tim looks thoughtfully out the window for a bit then turns in his seat to face Raylan. "I have no ties in Wolfe County anymore," he remarks, thinking about Raylan and Boyd.

"Mixed blessing," Raylan comments. He sounds tired. "Rachel tells me you kept the old house in Wolfe County."

"Yeah, though I'd hardly call it a house," Tim laughs. "When my dad died they gave me compassionate leave. What a joke. I came back, all dutiful, and threw a massive party to celebrate my bereavement. Woke up the next morning so fucking hung over, crawled out to the porch with a coffee and a bourbon. Sitting there, I realized how much I love that property. So, I went into town on the Monday, paid off the back taxes - paid off the mortgage later. I go up when I can and run around in the woods."

"Reliving your childhood," Raylan smiles teasingly.

"Yup, only with a much better rifle," Tim adds grinning. "I had a beaten old hunting rifle growing up. I couldn't hurt much with it, but I got pretty good at shooting squirrels from a distance."

"Do you hunt anymore?"

"No, kind of lost my taste for it. Well, no actually, that's not right. I still love hunting. I'll go out and track," Tim amends.

"But you don't shoot?"

"Nope."

One thing Raylan has learned about Tim, when he starts replying in monosyllables, you won't get anything more out of him by prying. So he waits.

After a while, Tim shifts in his seat. Raylan waits. Raylan is on a hunt, too.

"You know what Hemingway said? He said: _There is no hunting like the hunting of man. Those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else thereafter,"_ Tim recites.

Raylan waits.

"I heard someone showed that to Carlos Hathcock. He said that Hemingway had it right; it's the hunting he loved, not the killing. I'm not sure that's what Hemingway meant, because I know guys who love the shooting more than the tracking. And Hemingway and Hathcock, they both saw too much war to really believe it otherwise. But I like Hathcock's interpretation. My guess is he's just trying to make himself feel better about it all."

Raylan nods thoughtfully. He makes a mental note to google Hathcock when he gets back.

"You read any Shakespeare in school?" Tim asks out of the blue.

"Uh, yeah. Hamlet and…shit, can't remember the name…one of the comedies." Raylan wonders what brought this on. Tim and literature, it's quite a juxtaposition.

"Every time I come down to Harlan, I feel like I'm watching a Shakespeare play. I can't keep the characters straight, and the plot is fucking confusing," Tim opines. He shakes his head, "Thing is, I can't tell if it's a comedy or a tragedy."

"Wait till the end," suggests Raylan. "If everyone dies, it's a tragedy."

"Great," Tim grunts.

Raylan entertains them on the drive back to the 75 with the highlights of the lowlife of Harlan. Eventually he runs out of stories and Tim settles his head against the window and closes his eyes. They're a half hour out of Lexington when Tim jerks awake. Raylan looks over at the sudden motion. Tim is breathing hard and his features are tense. He passes a hand roughly over his face and folds his arms across his chest, not in his usual casual way, more like he's hugging himself. Raylan sneaks concerned looks at Tim, watching as he closes his eyes and deliberately slows his breathing.

"Remember that story you told us, about the sniper," Raylan fishes.

Tim looks warily over at him. "Uh-huh."

"Rachel and I were worried that might have been autobiographical," Raylan says, avoiding looking at Tim.

"Could have been any one of us," Tim shrugs, tiredly. "But it wasn't me."

"There but for the grace of God," Raylan concludes.

As they pull off the highway into Lexington, Tim sits up and stretches and says grumpily, "No one told me when I became a marshal I'd be spending so much time in a car."

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

* * *

Raylan ends the call and stands up to lean over the barrier where Tim is staring at his computer screen.

"That was Boyd," he says.

Tim whips his head around. "And?"

"And he's arranged a meet with Mark and the gang for Saturday evening."

"After that move at the bar, I figured any negotiating between them was over," Tim says. "Especially with us there."

"You've got to know Boyd," Raylan remarks, "He'll probably work a deal with St. Peter to let him in the pearly gates when the time comes _and_ he'll make arrangements at the other end for visiting rights."

"Where's the meeting?"

"The Cochrane house."

"What? That's insane. They must know we're watching it," Tim exclaims. "That's just plain stupid."

"Well, I think we've already determined that this isn't the brightest bunch. Presents us with a little problem though," Raylan says, looking meaningfully at Tim.

Tim is already thinking along the same lines. "I'll figure something out with Frisk," he says.

Raylan heads into Art's office to discuss the latest development.

* * *

The marshals gather in the parking lot Saturday afternoon and split up into different vehicles. Rachel, Tim and Art get into the same car with Raylan driving. As he turns out of the courthouse parking lot Raylan asks Tim about Frisk.

"I couldn't just tell him to stay away," says Tim. "He'd just be blabbing about it to his brother. Frisk can't help himself."

"What did you do, then?"

"Luckily, Gangstagrass is playing The Elephant Room in Louisville tonight. I got him two tickets and some spending money. He was wigging out," laughs Tim. "Called a school friend up to invite him. Frisk said the friend has a car. They were leaving today after lunch."

"What the hell is Gangstagrass?" asks Art.

"It's an inner city lawn care company," Tim replies, straight-faced.

"Bullshit."

"It's a band that does hillbilly rap," Rachel puts in, rescuing Art.

"I didn't think that was your kind of music," Raylan says to her, surprised. "I had you down as a Bessie Smith gal."

"As a matter of fact, I have her collection," Rachel replies. "But I'll listen to just about anything, as long as it's good. I guess you could say my taste is eclectic. I just like music. I don't do much rap, or bluegrass for that matter, but living with a 12-year-old keeps me current."

"Heard any Hayseed Dixie?" Tim asks her. "I had a friend come through town and drag me out to see them. I've never heard AC/DC done quite like that."

"Christ, you're making me feel old," grumbles Art.

* * *

As they're approaching Closplint, Art turns to Tim.

"I still think I'd like you on a rifle for this one," he says.

"I figured. I've been thinking about it," Tim responds. "Let me off early. There's a turn before you come up to the house. I can find a spot on the hill facing the front door without anyone seeing me. Give me 15 minutes to get set up."

Art nods and says to no one in particular, "I'm hoping this all goes down pretty quietly. I guess that goes without saying."

Rachel smiles at Art, appreciates that he's worrying about them. "They probably won't even be there," she says. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"Boyd's guy said he watched them pull in this morning," Raylan confirms.

"And you trust him?" Art peers at Raylan in disbelief. He knows how often these operations are a bust, and not the kind that ends up with someone in handcuffs.

"As far as I can."

At the turn, Raylan slows the car down and pulls over to the side of the road, the convoy behind him following. Tim climbs out and opens the back. He unzips the rifle case and assembles the weapon, stuffing extra clips in his pocket out of habit. Shutting the trunk he jogs across the road and heads up the hill into the woods. Raylan waits a bit longer than the 15 minutes and then pulls out.

He eases the car over to the side of the road, out of sight of the house before the lane way. The teams assemble, putting on vests and checking weapons, then move to cover their areas. Rachel and Raylan's team approaches from the front with a ram for the door. Guns drawn and ready, Rachel and Raylan take point, moving up the porch stairs and positioning themselves either side of the front door. Raylan takes a quick glance behind him at the hill where Tim should be set up. He was concerned that the angle wouldn't be good for a clear view of the porch, but the hill isn't as steep as he remembers. He nods at Rachel, then reaches over and pounds on the door.

"US Marshals. We have a federal warrant. Everyone, step outside with your hands in the air," Rachel yells.

She's got a good voice when she opens up – it carries well. There's no mistaking that the occupants of the house have heard her. There's sudden panicked movement inside.

"Don't shoot," a man's voice calls from inside. "We're coming out. We're not armed."

The door opens and Raylan stands ready, gun pointed at the chest of the first figure to appear. A man steps out timidly, hands straight up over his head. He gets passed down the stairs to the waiting marshals, checked for weapons and cuffed. Two more come out, then a fourth and a fifth in rapid succession. The porch is crowded now. When Mark Cochrane strides across the threshold and pulls a shotgun up at Raylan's head, Raylan can't get clear to shoot him. His only move is to throw himself backward over the railing.

Rachel fires two shots before Raylan even hits the ground. Mark's body lurches sideways from the impact of her bullets. Behind him, Stick, a snarling streak, leaps out of the door at Rachel and sinks his teeth into her arm. Another man, still inside, yells and opens fire, running out the door and pointing a gun at Rachel who's struggling with the dog. It all happens quickly. The first two shots go wide, but the shooter has moved into view with the gun right in Rachel's face for the third. Raylan is already up and running for the steps when he hears the rifle fire and he sees the shooter slump to the floor. A second crack and the dog drops.

Raylan takes the steps two at a time, gun ready. He checks first that there are no more threats, that Mark is dead, that the other shooter is dead. He stops beside the second shooter. He was taken down with a perfectly placed shot, there's an entry hole by the left ear and a pool of blood spreading out underneath – it's Frisk. He stares at the body for a moment then steps over him to Rachel.

"Jesus," she says softly. She's cradling her arm, shaking.

Raylan hears Art calling for a team to check the house.

* * *

In the pause, after the arrests, the ambulance sirens, after he's helped Rachel, still shaking, down from the porch and seated her on the step with a paramedic, Raylan looks around the scene for Tim. There's no mistaking the sound of a rifle shot, the shot that killed Frisk. Raylan starts to worry when he can't see him. He stops a fellow marshal – a shake of the head. He asks the next person – no, no Tim.

He locates Art.

"Art, have you seen Tim since…" he points vaguely toward the house where the coroner is zipping up another bag.

Art starts looking around, too. Starts looking concerned.

"Shit," Raylan curses and heads away from the house, up the hill where he imagines Tim would set up.

It doesn't take long to find him behind a small mound by a clump of oaks. He's lying on his back, his rifle across his chest, squinting up through the leaves of the trees to the darkening sky. He quickly wipes a hand across his face when he hears Raylan coming, but it doesn't work to hide anything. He's only made it worse by smearing dirt across his cheeks.

"Hey."

"Hey," Tim replies.

"It was good, Tim," he says quietly but insistently. "You had no choice. Rachel is some shook up."

Tim looks over. He's raw. Raylan sits down, leaning up against a tree. He starts picking at the leaves and twigs on the ground.

He thinks he gets it now; he understands the point of Tim's story.

* * *

 the end


End file.
